Marguerite Kaye

He picked up the hairbrush and handed it to her. “What were you planning to do with that, comb me to death?

He picked up the hairbrush and handed it to her. “What were you planning to do with that, comb me to death?

– Marguerite Kaye –

The Widow and the Sheikh

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Julie Garwood

Damn, you’re good,’ he said and rolled onto his back. The man wasn’t much for flowery speech, Alesandra thought with a smile. It didn’t matter. She was arrogantly proud of herself because she’d pleased him. Perhaps she should give him a little praise too. She rolled onto her side to face him, put her hand on his chest directly over his pounded heart, and whispered. ‘You’re good, too. ‘Tis the truth, you’re the best I’ve ever had.’ He opened his eyes to look at her. ‘I’m the only one you’ve ever had, remember?’ His voice was gruff with affection. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘No other man is ever going to touch you, Alesandra. You’re mine.

Paul Reid

People, her people at least, were always chasing shattered hopes. A father gazing down on dead soil, with a brood of hollow-cheeked children sitting around a barren table. A lonely maid cleaning grates and waiting for a lover who by now wouldn’t even recall her name. A weary labourer trudging miles between the hiring fairs, carrying his spade, clothes soiled from sleeping in damp fields. They held candles to storms, her people. They saw their lights extinguished as cruel winds of fate blew.

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